Baseball Short

Spend a Moment with Baseball.

I love baseball.  I love the smell of the leather gloves.  I love the stern faces of the young pitchers trying to intimidate the veteran sluggers.  I love the way the major leaguers still hold up fingers to show their teammates the number of outs.  I love how seriously the game is analyzed, dissected, and criticized.  But mostly, I love the real moments in baseball.  You know the moments I’m talking about.  When the camera moves away from the typical angles and briefly shows the manager--with one foot out of the dugout, perched eagerly--screaming encouragement to his players.  “C’mon Teenez, wait for the high one!”  “Jason, back up your foot, dig in!”  “Here we go Tec, here we go!”  Or, when robbed of a home run, a batter--stopped dead in his tracks rounding second--grinning at the opposing center fielder, wagging his finger and shaking his head.  The real moments in baseball humanize the game and remind me of why I fundamentally enjoy it.  Baseball is boys playing in the backyard.

Playing in the backyard is something that was and is deeply honored in my family.  My father, to this day, reserves at least three months out of the year for playing in the backyard.  I have very fond memories of throwing fastballs, curve balls, knuckleballs, and spit balls at our barn while my Dad watched from the broccoli patch.  In those moments, while a father watched his son enjoy his childhood, I was nowhere to be found.  I was either in Yankee Stadium or busy paying my dues in Single-A Portland.  I was pitching the ninth of a no-no to a sellout, or making a fearless double play over an aggressive, cleats-up runner.  I most certainly was not in upstate New York hurling tennis balls at a weathered cow barn.  Even while playing catch with my Dad, I often invented scenarios including him--either explicitly or secretly--in the story.  “Dad, throw me some grounders, WAY to the left, and then cover first!”  “Dad, throw me some pop-ups WAY deep, and then block the plate while I throw out Ricky Henderson!”  These moments that cemented my true passion for the game also offer me the capacity to read these ballplayer’s faces.  I can see the eleven-year old version of Chipper Jones and Derek Jeter, and I can hear them calling out, “throw them HARDER, Dad!” or “hit it FARTHER, Dad!”  While Dads are an integral part of a ballplayer’s development, it is also the Mothers--watching anxiously along the third-base line--that give the overwhelming support necessary to carry these boys along. 

While I love the real moments while watching a big league game, it’s rare that you see these real moments as portrayed by the players’ number one fans--their mothers.  My mom was the tenth player on my baseball teams.  While many parents sat in the bleachers criticizing their kid’s technique or recent gaffe, Mr. or Mrs. Whoever suddenly became obsolete to us ballplayers.  We learned to tune out the negative ranting of the overbearing fathers, and instead chose to focus on my Mom’s steady soundtrack.  “Good eye, Mike!”  “Nice slide, Matt!”  “C’mon Green, hit ‘em where they ain’t!”  My mom’s message still runs through my mind whenever I’m involved in any type of competitive activity.   The gist?  Have fun.  Don’t stress.  Great job.  I never got in the car after one of the many disastrous defeats in little league to the sound of criticism from my Mom.  I was never marched into the backyard and forced to do bad-hop drills.  I wasn’t brought to the batting cages to work on breaking ball hitting.  I was taken out for ice cream.  I wasn’t a major leaguer in training, I was a kid in little league.  

Sometimes, I think that it would be great to sit in a skybox with Jon Lester’s Mom and catch a game at Fenway.  I imagine what it would feel like to jump out of my seat with her, boo at the ump with her, and scream until hoarse while Jon pitches out of a late-inning jam deep in his pitch count.  I can see the whites of her knuckles as he walks the bases loaded, and I can hear her groans as Manny drops a routine fly ball.  I can even picture the tears streaming down her face as he is pulled after 8 strong innings to an electrifying standing-O.  But, only a minute later I realize that this is not my moment.  My moment is planted next to MY Mom on the precarious bleacher planks at the Geneva ballpark, eating salt potatoes, laughing about the mispronounced ballplayer names, and shouting encouragement to the four sheepish-looking college infielders who just watched a fly ball fall between them.